After I slip in
next to you,
your tiny body
curls like a centipede,
I touch.

I sleep,
though, the picture
you left on the wall does not,
your elbows already
folding into dark wings
and your body weightless,
leaning half-way
into shadow,
perhaps into
a raven
this time.

I stand,
and look over
the sheets,
fallen like
skin from flesh.
I’d go to you,
low as an ant,
to say
that I too see the man
in the bed,
who resembles me.

That, he is a rock
who I want to turn over
and find the insects
that ravens love.
But, he cannot wake.
He’s tried.
He cannot even dream.

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